


The Gift

by invisible_doorknob



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, sticky like treacle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 15:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6289717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisible_doorknob/pseuds/invisible_doorknob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Autumn brings a surprise for Esca and Marcus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this lovely [fanart](http://nanihoosartblog.tumblr.com/post/106275179297/but-for-real-tho-fanfics-where-marcus-and-esca) (warning: spoiler). Beta-read by a good friend. Non-detailed mention of past rape.

Twilight is drawing on, and Esca almost misses the horse.

It is only the strangeness of a traveler going through the woods, instead of using the road, that catches his attention; even then he might have ignored it and gone his own way, for it is only one and no threat to him, but for the odd slump of the rider.

 _He’s hurt_ , is Esca’s first thought, and then-- _No, it’s a woman._ He blinks. _And she’s carrying._

Obviously, at that; the curve of her belly strains the tunic she wears. Both she and the horse are drooping, weary, and he can’t tell if it is instinct or compassion that moves his feet, but Esca finds himself moving to intercept the horse’s slow walk through the trees. She doesn’t look up.

“Lady? Are you ill?” he asks in his own tongue, which still comes more easily than the blockier Latin.

She doesn’t seem to hear him, and Esca steps closer; at the sight of him, the horse drifts to a stop, and he peers up at the woman. “Lady?”

She raises her head slowly, and he can see that she is barely conscious. Her face is young, but thin and strained; her clothes are plain and worn, and her light hair is bundled back in a tangled braid. The signs are obvious. _She’s a slave--or was. A runaway?_

He sets his bow down carefully and holds up both hands, empty, trying an easy smile. “I mean no harm.”

The woman shakes her head as if trying to clear it. She’s British, Esca can tell that much from the shape and cast of her face, and she sits the horse like one unused to riding. Her clothing is far too poor to support the keep of such an animal, and she has nothing with her, not food nor clothes nor even a cloak. _DEFINITELY a runaway. And a thief as well; if that’s not her master’s horse then I’m a Greek._

“I...I’m going to Deva,” she manages, her voice slurred with exhaustion or illness. “My...my aunt is sick.”

The lie is as clear as her status. Esca has to admire her resourcefulness, as well as her courage. Penalties for escaped slaves are harsh, and her pregnancy makes her far too memorable a sight. Something truly terrible must have driven her to this attempt.

_And she can’t get much further._

The solution is obvious, though he isn’t sure what Marcus will have to say about it. But the autumn chill is beginning to bite, and night is drifting in. _There’s enough in the pot for three and space in the stable for another set of hooves._

He opens his mouth to offer her shelter for the night, not certain she will accept, and then has to reach up to steady her as she sways in the saddle. _This won’t do._

“Lady.” He shakes her gently, trying to raise her from her stupor. “You need to rest. Let me take you to our home, at least for tonight.”

She blinks, and he bites off a curse. _I don’t think she even heard me._

Well, he can’t leave her. Fortunately, the farm isn’t far, and Esca is doubly grateful, because the only way to keep her in the saddle besides tying her there will be to ride behind her, and the horse isn’t going to be able to carry double for long.

“Forgive me,” he says, not sure whether he is talking to her or the horse or both, and swings up behind her. The horse snorts in protest, but the woman scarcely reacts, even when Esca reaches around her to gather the reins. _Better me than Marcus for this, at least._ Esca weighs a good deal less.

It takes much longer than it should to make their way to the road, and then to the farm, and it is full dark by the time they reach the gate, the woman slumped over her belly and mostly unconscious. Marcus has lit and hung a lantern outside their door, and Esca is grateful for it as he urges the horse up to the low-roofed house. Half British and half Roman, it is far from graceful, but manages to meld both styles in a fashion that gave them, Marcus says, enough room to swing their arms without burning a mountain of fuel to keep warm.

Esca slides down and lays the reins on the horse’s neck, trusting that it is too tired to go anywhere on its own, before looking up. The woman stirs, head lifting and dull eyes opening. “We’re here--do you need help getting down?”

It’s a foolish question--indeed, he wonders how she managed to get _up_ \--but the woman blinks dazedly at him and then nods. It takes some manoeuvring, but shortly she is standing next to him--and Esca keeps his arm around her when her knees immediately buckle. “Be easy,” he says, though he isn’t sure how well she can hear him. “Just come along inside.”

They’ve taken just a few stumbling steps towards the house when Marcus ducks out of the doorway, no doubt drawn by the sound of hooves on dirt. “Esca?”

“We have a guest tonight, Marcus,” Esca replies, jerking his head at the woman and raising his brows to convey _save the questions for later_.

Marcus’ brows go up, but he does not protest, stepping forward instead to pluck the woman from Esca’s grip and lift her easily into his own arms. “If you’ll see to the horse I’ll settle her,” he says, frowning a little when the woman’s head lolls against his shoulder.

“Heat some broth,” Esca says, turning back to the horse, though he has to glance back to watch as Marcus carries the woman inside. His limp is more pronounced, but his gait is otherwise steady, and Esca leads the horse into their little stable, reassured.

When he enters the house, he can hear Marcus’ voice low and soft in the tiny space that was their sleeping chamber, and in the little kitchen a pot giving forth savoury steam sits next to the larger one that holds their supper. Esca sets aside the two grouse he’d shot earlier, and goes to fill a bowl with broth.

When he carries it into the next room, he finds the woman bundled beneath several furs on their bed, and Marcus folding the tunic she’d been wearing. “She’s got one of mine,” he says mildly at Esca’s curious glance. “Yours would never fit her as she is now.”

Esca snorts, amused, and sits on the edge of the low bed. “Lady? Are you awake?” he asks, and hears Marcus’ restless motion behind him. He ignores it. Marcus is still unskilled in Esca’s tongue despite some months of practice, but the woman’s comfort is more important right now than Marcus’ comprehension.

“Who?” She blinks up at Esca, only half-aware, and he gives her a reassuring smile.

“I am Esca, son of Cunoval, and my large friend is Marcus Flavius Aquila, though he is not quite so Roman as he appears. Here, can you sit up a bit and drink this?”

He is relieved that he does not have to spoon the broth into her mouth, though he does have to steady the bowl as she drinks. Her eyes re sliding shut before she’s finished, and as soon as the last swallow is gone she is sinking into the furs as if they are pulling her down.

Marcus has gone back out to the main room, and Esca stands, taking the room’s lamp as he leaves. The woman is like to sleep for hours now.

Marcus is dishing up supper, bread and stew, and Esca sets the empty bowl aside and takes his place on the far side of the little table, accepting the plate Marcus passes him with a nod of thanks. Marcus takes his own seat, folds his hands, and looks at Esca. “You’ll have to tell me the story sooner or later.”

Esca laughs. “Entertaining as it would be to keep you waiting--well. She was coming through the woods at dusk, and it was obvious that neither she nor her mount could go much further. She’s with child, Marcus--I could scarcely leave her there in the cold.”

Marcus breaks his bread in two, ignoring the crumbs that scatter across the tabletop. “She’s a runaway slave, even I can see that.”

Esca’s amusement vanishes. “Would you turn her in, then? For that, and thieving?”

Marcus shakes his head quickly. “No, of course not!” A trace of pain flashes across his face and is gone. “I only meant that if we are to help her, it must be done quietly.”

Esca feels his ears heating with shame at his assumption. “I am sorry, Marcus.” He stares down at his plate. “I should not think such things of you.”

A hand clasps his arm, and he looks up to Marcus’ rueful smile. “It was not so long ago you would have been right,” he says. “But as you told her, I am not quite so Roman as I seem. Now.”

Still a bit ashamed, Esca catches Marcus’ hand and places a kiss in the palm, in thanks and apology. “I do not think you ever would have turned your back on someone in dire need.”

“You flatter me.” One finger touches Esca’s cheek in a brief caress before Marcus returns to his supper. “But I think you are correct. Something dire drove her into flight, if she took a horse but nothing else.”

“Well, perhaps we’ll learn on the morrow.” Esca digs into his own stew. “We can start with her name.”

* * *

 

It is fortunate, Esca thinks, that the farm is doing well enough that they have furs enough to spread on the floor as well as the bed; dirt makes for a hard mattress, but he’s slept on far worse, and Marcus is a solid warmth curled up around him. He leaves the hide pulled back on the window--autumn is not so advanced as to freeze just yet, and the night is still--and hopes the moonlight will be enough.

The woman does wake once during the night, as Esca expects, and her fumblings are enough to draw him halfway from sleep, but she finds the pisspot beneath the bed within a minute, and he stays still so as not to embarrass her. Well does he remember how late pregnancy affected a woman; there were no secrets in a roundhouse when everyone slept together. But she seems to fall asleep quickly thereafter, and Esca sinks back into dream himself.

It is not quite dawn when the loss of Marcus’ warmth wakes Esca once more. They usually take it in turns to be the first to brave the chill and light the fire, and for a big man Marcus can move with uncanny silence, but given how exhausted the woman had been Esca suspects they could shout across the room and not wake her. As soon as the fire is going, Esca rises also; horse-tending waits for no one.

They yawn and scratch their way through dressing and hot tea--neither Esca nor Marcus are particularly articulate at such an hour--and deal with the first round of chores, feeding and watering and porridge-making. Esca sluices off at the streamlet that winds through their near pasture, swearing a little at the cold, and returns to the house in time to find Marcus dishing up not only porridge but a boiled egg apiece.

“I know little of women at all, let alone pregnant ones,” Marcus says with a trace of apology as he hands Esca a bowl. “But she looked half-starved last night.”

Esca gives him a smile. “This is perfect. Pour her some of the new milk as well, would you?”

He half-expects to find their guest still asleep, but she is sitting up, feet on the floor as she tries to work the tangles from her hair with her fingers. She looks up warily as Esca enters.

“Peace,” he says quickly. “Are you hungry?”

The woman hesitates, then jerks her head in a nod. Esca hands her the food and goes to crouch by the hearth, ostensibly to put more wood on it. She eats neatly, but Esca can see her hands shaking a little. _Marcus is right, she is well on her way to starving._

When she is finished, Esca glances over to the doorway, and Marcus comes out of his hover beyond it to lean on the jamb, arms folded. The woman glances up, gaze darting to him and away, and she sets down the empty dishes, fingers twisting together in her lap. “Who are you?”

“Farmers,” Esca replies. “Can you understand Latin?”

“Yes,” the woman says in that tongue, with another nervous glance at Marcus. Marcus gives her his most charming smile, but somewhat to Esca’s surprise her face hardens and she looks away. Marcus blinks.

“We mean you no harm,” Esca says in Latin. “We have no desire to return you to whatever it is you are fleeing.”

The woman doesn’t look convinced, but her taut shoulders relax a trifle. “What is your name?” Esca continues.

The woman hesitates. “Vatta,” she says after a moment, offering no surname or clan.

Esca nods. “Will you tell us your story?”

Vatta hesitates again, and Marcus speaks. “The more we know, the better we can help you,” he said gently.

Vatta’s mouth twists. “I am--was--a slave,” she says. “My master died suddenly. His heir is far away, and will have to travel to take possession of the estate. Things were in chaos upon the master’s death...I ran.” She shrugs. “It was an impulse, but I could not face…”

She swallows hard. Esca stands, not wanting to distress her further. “Freedom is worth the attempt.” He doesn’t look at Marcus; what had taken place between them was far more complicated. “Will you let us help you?”

Vatta looks from him to Marcus and back. “It seems I don’t have much choice.” The grim set of her mouth softens. “Though...I _am_ grateful.”

Esca nods. Marcus pushes away from the jamb.

“If we are to conceal you here for a while, we must get rid of that horse,” he says, still gentle. “Even if we claim we found it riderless, it will bring too much attention.”

Vatta shrugs again. “Do as you will with it. I only took it because it was faster than my own legs--particularly now.”

Her face is hard once more. Esca glances at Marcus, who jerks his head in the direction of their tiny bathhouse before disappearing--to deal with the horse, Esca presumes. He turns up one hand.

“Do you wish to bathe? Marcus insisted on a balneum when we built here, and though it has only one room it’s quite comfortable.”

For the first time, Vatta smiles.

* * *

 

Marcus is gone for a couple of hours, and Esca gulps down his breakfast and busies himself with farm work in the meantime. When he goes back to check on Vatta he finds her asleep in their bed again, mostly buried in the furs, and he lets her be, keeping his ears sharp for any sign of searchers or slave-catchers. There is nowhere to hide Vatta on their property; their only hope is to convince anyone looking that they had never seen her.

When Marcus does return, he is limping more than usual, but he looks satisfied. Esca, sitting on the rough bench outside their door, twists another handful of feathers from the grouse he is plucking. “Well?”

Marcus sits next to him with a sigh and reaches for the other grouse. “I put the tack back on the horse and led it a few miles north on the road, then maybe half a mile into the forest. If it follows its nose it will end up at the Tettius farm; they can keep it or report it, as they please.”

Esca grins a little. “Sell it, if I know them.”

Marcus snorts, but doesn’t deny it. “With luck, they’ll think the rider dead.”

Esca frowns. “How so?”

“An old trick from the East.” Marcus smirks. “Before we left I nicked the black mare’s neck and caught a bit of her blood in a jar. Not deep--” he adds quickly as Esca’s frown deepens. “She scarcely noticed. And when I was ready to let Vatta’s horse go I poured the blood down its shoulder.”

Esca raises his brows, impressed despite himself. “That _is_ clever. Who would bother to look for a slave’s body?”

“That’s what I thought,” Marcus says, laying aside feathers. “How is she?”

“Asleep last I checked.” Esca tests the plumpness of the bird’s breast with his thumb. “I’ll roast one of these for tonight.”

Marcus nods and shakes down from his fingers. “It’s good that it’s autumn, we have plenty to share.” They are still relatively new to farming; so far they are succeeding, but spring is a lean time. “Do you think...how far along is she?”

Esca half-closes his eyes in memory. It has been years, but his clan had been a populous one before its ruin. “I’d say she’s a month out from giving birth, at most.”

Marcus hesitates. “Should we speak to Sulgwenn?”

Esca gives it some thought; the local wise-woman and midwife is discreet, certainly, and will not ask questions or reveal what she learns. But-- “I think we should ask Vatta first.”

Marcus relaxes. “True.” He goes back to pulling feathers, and Esca hides a grin. His Roman always feels better with a plan to follow.

The afternoon is filled with horse training and other daily chores. Marcus tends to handle the indoor work due to his leg, and he reports only that Vatta has not emerged from their sleeping chamber, but when Esca comes in at sunset for the evening meal he finds her seated on the bench where they had prepared the grouse, once again working on her knotted hair.

“Here.” Esca hands her the wide-toothed comb he uses on the horses’ tails; he’s taken the time to scrub it first. “This may help.”

Vatta’s tight expression relaxes somewhat. “Oh, thank you.” She is wearing Marcus’ tunic still, and a pair of Esca’s own leggings, too long on her but not as ridiculous as Marcus’ would have been. “I...did not dare stop to take anything when I ran.”

Foolish, but Esca understands the drive towards freedom. He doesn’t know of the recent death of a wealthy man, but he and Marcus live far enough away from towns that the news comes infrequently. “Is it likely that you will be searched for?” he asks carefully.

Vatta doesn’t look up from the snarl between her fingers. “I don’t--I don’t know.” She is scowling again, but it is at least half fear, if Esca is any judge. “I do not know what manner of man the heir is. The others will have to report me missing when he arrives, or risk punishment, but they may be able to wait a day or so.”

“Hmm.” Their farm may be isolated, but it is by no means hidden. “Perhaps you’d best stay near the house.”

Vatta nods, and lets a tangle of loosened hair drift from her fingers.

“Marcus was wondering if we should fetch the midwife for you. She’ll not speak of you to anyone,” Esca adds quickly, but Vatta’s scowl deepens.

“No.” She yanks viciously at her hair, then stands and stalks inside.

Esca blinks. _That was unexpected._

* * *

 

That evening Vatta joins them in the kitchen for supper; there isn’t much room around the little table, but Esca has no objection to squeezing closer to Marcus, and if Vatta marks the lack of space between them, she says nothing of it. It feels strange to have a guest for the meal. It isn’t as if they don’t have visitors once in a while, but they usually eat by the big hearth then, where there is more room.

When they are finished she gathers up the plates, moving awkwardly around the bulge of her belly, and goes to clean them. Marcus opens his mouth, but Esca puts a warning hand on his and shakes his head, and Marcus subsides.

They bathe together afterwards, the two of them--not something they indulge in every day, but it feels odd to lack privacy, and it is a good opportunity to speak together without Vatta overhearing.

Not that they had anything to say that she should not know, Esca thinks; she doesn’t seem stupid, and he suspects she has already marked that they possess only one bed. Esca looks down at the top of Marcus’ head where it lies against his chest, and feels the corner of his mouth tugging up.

A big hand strokes down the outside of Esca’s thigh in a gentle caress, only slightly slowed by the water. “Your guest--we should keep her at least until she births,” Marcus says thoughtfully. “Even I can see she’s in no condition to travel, particularly on foot.”

Esca hums in agreement. “If she’ll agree to it. I expect she will; I doubt she had much of a plan when she ran.” He rubs his chin against Marcus’ crown. “That could take us into winter, however, particularly if the birth is hard.”

He doesn’t bring up the fact that either or both the mother and child could fail to survive it; there is no point in tempting ill luck.

Marcus shrugs a little, and reaches up a dripping hand to pull Esca’s arm from the rim of the bath to wrap around his chest. “We can afford it, if we’re careful.”

Esca breathes a laugh. He’d brought home a host of problems wrapped in the form of a prickly woman, and all Marcus seeks to do is solve them in the kindest fashion possible. _It is no mystery that I love him._ “Well. Again, we should ask her.”

Marcus nods. “You should do the asking. She fears me, I think.”

And he is wise enough at last to understand why, Esca knows. He tightens his arm and bends forward enough to press a kiss to Marcus’ ear. “I’ll do that.”

When they return to the house, moving quickly through the chilly night, they find Vatta has moved a pile of furs to the main room and is burrowed into them; she doesn’t stir as they pass. In the sleeping room, the rest of the furs are folded neatly on the bed. Marcus looks concerned, but Esca shrugs at him. “I’ll find her something for a pallet in the morning,” he says softly, and Marcus relaxes.

The next morning is much a repeat of the previous. Vatta doesn’t wake until Marcus is dishing up breakfast, but Esca isn’t surprised; one day of rest was hardly enough to repair her exhaustion. She sits up, rubbing her eyes, and though her face is less drawn it is still too thin. Esca suspects that her lack of food is not entirely a recent thing.

It is bread and cheese this morning; Marcus has learned to tolerate porridge, but he tends to swap back and forth between British food and Roman, and since he is willing to do most of the cooking Esca doesn’t argue. He takes the third plate from Marcus and goes to crouch by Vatta. “Here. Your babe must be crying out with hunger.”

He means it for a gentle tease, but her face hardens. “If I could starve it from me I would,” she says, low and savage.

Esca’s face must show his shock, because Vatta grimaces, taking the plate with a nod. “Lady?” he asks faintly, but she shakes her head.

“I suppose I owe you my tale--but not where your Roman can hear,” she replies, equally quietly.

Esca opens his mouth to protest for Marcus’ honour, then closes it. _That’s not what she needs to hear._ “Very well,” he says instead, and leaves her to eat.

* * *

 

When Marcus and Esca return to the house for the noon meal they find the floors swept and the dishes cleaned, and bread rising on the hearth; Vatta is seated on the bench outside the door, her face turned up to the sun. After they eat, Marcus announces his intention of doing laundry that afternoon while the sun is strong, and carries a bundle of clothing down to the stream. Esca takes the opportunity to bring out a jug of beer from the pantry and fill two mugs. He hands one to Vatta where she still sits at the table. “Tales always go easier this way.”

Vatta snorts. “Very true.” She is silent as Esca resumes his seat, and he doesn’t press her while she organises her thoughts.

When she does speak, it is in their native tongue. “I was born to the Votadini, but I was taken as war-spoils as a child and sold into slavery. For a while I was handmaiden to a Briton woman, and I was not unhappy, but when she died I was sold again, and my new master--” Her mouth twists. “He used me in the manner of Romans with their slaves.”

Esca winces, and nods, burying the oath he wants to speak in his beer. Such things are common and expected.

“I could have tolerated that, but he was cruel with it, and when I fell pregnant with his child he was _delighted._ ” Vatta looks as if she wants to spit, or vomit. “I was guarded so that I could not rid myself of his issue. And though he is dead I must still bear it--”

Her hand clenches against her swollen belly, as if she wishes for a knife to drive home. Esca holds his tongue; there is nothing he could say to help or comfort.

After a while Vatta sighs, and takes another sip of beer. “That is why I look at your friend so. I understand he means me no harm, but he makes me--remember.”

Esca nods again. Marcus wouldn’t be offended--much. “Think of him as a large and clumsy hound, if it helps,” he offers, and wins a wry smile.

Vatta sighs again. “I have nothing to offer in repayment for your kindness, and cannot even work much. But I am grateful for your help.”

Esca shrugs. “Others were kind to us when we had nothing; perhaps you can pass the kindness on, when your fortunes change.” He shifts in his seat, trying to phrase his question delicately. “Were you truly going to your aunt in Deva?”

Vatta turns one hand upwards. “A friend, rather. She bought her freedom and married, and I know she would take me in.” Her mouth tightens, and Esca can hear the words she hasn’t spoken. _If I could travel._

“You had best stay until your--ah, the babe is born,” Esca says gently. “Then perhaps we can see about getting you there.”

She hesitates for a long moment before jerking her head in a nod, and Esca is relieved. Women of the tribes could and often did give birth with no trouble and go back to work within a day or two, but there is a vast difference between an easy birth surrounded by family and help, and one alone in the wilderness where the smell of blood will draw predators.

And if it is _not_ an easy birth…

Vatta sets down her mug. “This is a pretty place,” she says, a thread of wistfulness underlying her words. “How did _you_ come to be farming here, with a soldier of Rome?”

Esca grins, and sits back. “Now that is a tale,” he says, and marvels a little at how so much of the sting of memory has faded with time and friendship. “I was born to the Brigantes…”

He tells her their story as they finish their beer--not the whole of the tale, certainly, but enough for her to understand why he has made the choices he has. And perhaps enough for her to trust Marcus’ honour as well.

“It is strange,” Vatta says, when he is done. “But clearly you are content, and what more can one ask for in life?”

“It is not the life I expected to have,” Esca admits. “But it is perhaps better.” Better than dying with his clan, at least, though it has taken him years to accept that.

Vatta nods. “No one who is not born a slave expects to be one, I think.” She rubs absently at the crown of her belly, as if to ease; Esca isn’t sure she’s aware of the motion. “I will say that when I fled, it was mostly despair that drove me. You taking me in has given me hope, and it is as if I can feel my fate changing around me.”

Esca smiles.

* * *

 

The next few days bring a tentative routine. Vatta picks up some of the lighter tasks of the house and even a little cooking, and Marcus does his best to work around her. Esca cannot say that Vatta relaxes around Marcus, exactly, but she ceases to stiffen at the sight of him, and they even trade a few light words during meals.

For his part, Esca finds the sudden lack of privacy a little constricting, but he has no one but himself to blame for it, and after all it’s easy enough to lure Marcus into the vegetable garden for a few kisses, or into the stable for more than that. For her part Vatta keeps close to the house, and does not ask questions when they both come in sweaty and with straw stuck here and there.

All three of them keep a sharp watch for unwelcome visitors, but no one comes down the lane that leads to their farm. Without discussing it, Esca and Marcus divide the hunting, so that one of them is always on their property; Esca’s not sure what they would do if slave-catchers _did_ appear, but he would not be willing to give Vatta up without protest and he knows Marcus feels the same.

“After all,” Marcus teases when they are grooming the horses, “I am quite comfortable with surly Britons by now. This is nothing new.”

Esca snorts. “Just remember, we have you outnumbered.”

Marcus laughs. “Esca, you _always_ had me outnumbered.”

The next morning, however, brings a restless wind that chases clouds scudding across the sky, and Esca sniffs the air and feels the tension of it in his skin.

“Storm’s coming,” he reports to both Marcus and Vatta over breakfast. “It’ll be a big one.”

Marcus grimaces. “I’d better bring in the last of the vegetables, then. Will you fix the stable thatch? That loose spot near the far corner is getting wider.”

Esca nods. “It shouldn’t really start until past nightfall, so we have the day.” And plenty to fill it, with all that has to be secured before a storm comes through. The first one of autumn is apt to be quite rough.

They work hard all the day. Esca takes the roof because he’s more nimble--and lighter--and from that vantage point he sees Marcus pulling the last of the carrots and collecting gourds. Vatta follows him with a basket, since she cannot bend but she can carry, and Esca smiles to see Marcus peer into the basket and send her inside with it before it is full, lest it grow too heavy.

They collect the odds and ends that tend to pile up in the farmyard, and fasten down the window coverings all around the house; Esca moves extra hay into the stable, and Marcus cuts firewood. Vatta sits at the table and twists new wicks for the lamps, and makes stew for supper. The work goes well, but as Esca milks the goats and pours some milk out for the stable cats, he thinks uneasily that being cooped up together in the little house during a storm may not pass as smoothly.

But Marcus is bringing in the horses from the paddock, and Vatta is luring the chickens into the stable with some vegetable peelings, and there is no more time to think about it as the dark closes in and the wind picks up.

Its ferocity is chilling; Esca listens as it hurls itself down out of the sky, and is reminded of his clan’s old stories of wicked spirits. But the house is warm and comfortable and not too draughty, even when the rain begins, and they are all tired enough to go to bed early. Esca wraps himself around Marcus--who is already snoring--and lets sleep take him.

* * *

 

It is not the storm that wakes him.

Esca lies still for several minutes, still half-asleep, and tries blearily to work out what has disturbed him. Marcus is silent now, a warm hill beneath the furs next to him, but he has always slept more soundly than Esca.

The wind is wailing, rattling the thatch overhead, and rain spatters against the stretched hides covering the windows, but Esca strains his ears, listening for something more.

The low sound is more grunt than groan, and Esca relaxes a trifle. _It’s only Vatta._

And then he sits upright. _Wait--_

The coals in the brazier are still faintly glowing, and it only takes Esca a moment to light a lamp. When he carries it into the main room, he finds Vatta pacing back and forth across its width, hands knotted in Marcus’ ill-fitting tunic and her face a grim pale slash in the flickering light.

As Esca searches for words, she halts and braces one arm against the wall, grunting again, and Esca’s mouth goes dry with dread at the sight of the ripple moving across her distended belly beneath the tunic. _Now is not a good time._

But he knows as well as anyone that a birthing cannot be sped or slowed. He sets the lamp on the table and waits until Vatta’s taut shoulders slump. “How long?”

Vatta shoots him a glare. “How am I to know?” she says hoarsely. “I’ve never done this before.”

Esca meant _how long have you been having pains_ , but it does not seem wise to correct her just now. It’s not as if the answer would tell him much anyway. Vatta resumes her pacing as Esca searches for words.

“We’ll need Sulgwenn,” he says at last. “Let me wake Marcus, and--”

“No need,” comes the sleep-deepened voice behind him, and Esca turns to see Marcus in the doorway, looking thoughtfully at Vatta. He has come completely awake at once, soldier-fashion, and Esca is desperately relieved to see him so.

Vatta makes an angry noise, but does not argue. Esca goes to unfasten the door-hanging and peer outside, and winces at the icy rain that splashes his face. The storm is in full spate.

“It had better be me,” he says. “The going will be treacherous.”

Marcus grimaces, but does not argue, instead going to the chest against one wall to pull out an oiled cloak and toss it to Esca. “You’re faster anyway.”

Esca pulls on a tunic and boots, watching as Vatta continues to pace, though she has to stop again as another contraction seizes her. Marcus has retreated to the little kitchen and is clanging pots there, presumably to give Vatta space, but Esca knows that he is listening.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he tells Vatta, who gives a distracted nod. Esca takes a deep breath, and dives into the storm.

The wind nearly knocks him off his feet at first. Esca huddles down into the cloak, pulling it tightly around him, though he suspects he’ll be soaked through soon just the same, and takes a second to be grateful that they had spent enough coin to hire a thatcher rather than roofing the house and stable themselves, because the roofs are actually staying _on_.

If the weather were not so bad, Esca would take a horse, but in the wind and darkness four legs will scarcely be faster than two, and risky besides should his mount take a fall. Esca sets out across the fields on foot instead, straining his eyes against the darkness; any lantern would be snuffed in a trice by the wind.

He meets his first barrier at the stream. Swollen with rain, it has overflowed its banks and is gushing fast and angry; it’s far too wide to leap, and it would be sheer folly to try to cross on foot. Esca shudders at the vision of being pulled down into the icy water and tumbled away over the rocks.

He turns back and takes the road instead, though it is almost a stream itself, running with water and mud. Esca sloshes along as fast as he can, though his boots are already sodden, and hopes that Vatta’s labour isn’t progressing too quickly. _I’m not sure how Sulgwenn can make it back with me._ The midwife is a tough old woman, used to travelling to see her patients, and Esca takes heart from that. _Perhaps by cart…_

He’s not sure how long it takes him to reach the village, but by the time he does he’s sopping, and only the effort of speed has kept him warm. He pounds on Sulgwenn’s jamb, knowing she’s used to being woken in the middle of the night, but it is her husband who comes to the door.

Gaisio too is used to midnight callers, but he shakes his bald head. “She’s not here. There’s a birth up in the hills, she’s been gone since supper.” He blinks at Esca, puzzled now that the automatic response is out of the way. “What need have _you_ of her, mac Cunoval?”

Esca thinks fast. “We have a guest who’s ill,” he says, mixing truth and falsehood. “They’ve no taste for Roman physicians and wished for a trustworthy Briton. But if Sulgwenn isn’t here we may have to settle for the old sot’s knives and prayers to Aesculapius after all.”

Gaisio snorts. “If you can make it to Calleva to find him,” he says. “I don’t expect Sulgwenn back before the storm ends. Will you come in and warm yourself?”

The courtesy is half-muffled by a yawn, but it’s sincere enough, and Esca is badly tempted. But he really can’t spare the time. “Thank you, no. I’d better see what the road to Calleva looks like.”

“As you like,” Gaisio says affably, and bids him farewell. Esca turns away, back into the teeth of the storm, and reflects wryly that being husband to a midwife must inure one to all sorts of disturbances.

He makes as speedy a return as he can in the dark and wind, wiping rain from his eyes and wondering uneasily how Vatta and Marcus are both doing. There’s no point in truly going to Calleva for the physician; Esca doubts that Vatta would allow him near her, and in any case the man’s a habitual drunkard and is probably insensible by this hour. _Come to that, I’m not sure I’D let him near me._

When he stumbles back into their house, the warmth wraps around him like a blanket, and the sudden lack of wind makes Esca’s ears ring. Marcus is on him almost at once, stripping off his cloak and tunic and enveloping him in a rough towel. “I was starting to worry,” he says lowly, squeezing Esca in a brief hug. “I have not seen so fierce a storm since I came to Britain.”

Esca returns the hug before scrubbing at his hair with the towel. “Sulgwenn was seeing to another birth. I’m afraid we’re on our own.”

Vatta is no longer in the room, but light spills from the sleeping room and Esca hears a muffled groan from that direction. He grimaces and keeps his voice quiet. “I fear we are all Vatta will have to help her through this, and Marcus, assisting a horse or a goat is hardly enough experience to draw on.”

Marcus scrubs a hand through his hair. “We’re not as helpless as you think,” he says, a trifle sheepish, but before Esca can make him explain, Vatta groans again and Marcus hurries into the sleeping room.

Esca frowns and hastens to pull off his boots. He’s still wet, but all his clothes are in the sleeping room; but the house is warmer than usual, and his chill is fading.

He slips into the smaller room as quietly as he can. Vatta is sitting bare-legged on their bed, which has been cleared of furs and mattress and covered with a sheet; she is biting her lip to whiteness and clutching the edge of the bed-frame as a contraction grips her.

Marcus has carried in the table from the kitchen, and it holds cloths and a bowl and a few other things, but Esca has no time to examine them before Marcus speaks. “Go and wash,” he tells Esca. “I may need your help.”

Esca opens his mouth to protest, then closes it as Vatta exhales and slumps. _Now is not the time to argue._

When he comes back from the kitchen, freshly damp, Vatta is lying back against the long bolster that serves as a pillow, panting. Marcus offers her a cup of water, but she waves it away, and he sets it back on the table and turns to poke at the flames in the brazier. The room is almost stifling, and Esca feels sweat begin to prickle out on his temples. He moves to stand at Marcus’ side, and keeps his voice low. “Explain.”

Marcus sighs. “When I first joined the Eagles my cohort was snowed in for two months in Germania, in a little town in the mountains. My centurion assigned me to assist the medicus, and when he grew bored with treating frostbite he would venture out into the town and bring me along. By the time the thaw came I had witnessed five births.”

Esca stares at him. “You never mentioned this.”

Marcus shrugs. “It was a long time ago. Hopefully I remember enough to be useful.”

 _I hope so too,_ Esca thinks.

There follows a long time of waiting. Vatta still paces when she can, but her contractions come much faster now. Marcus watches her closely, speaking gently, and Esca is not sure if it is resignation or simply exhaustion, but she no longer seems to fear him. She curses under her breath when she has breath to spare, a litany of words that Esca understands and Marcus does not, but the latter does not flinch when she hurls them in his direction.

He is the picture of calm, but Esca knows him better than anyone, and he can see the nervousness in the set of Marcus’ shoulders and the way he holds his hands. When Vatta is lost in a long contraction he touches Marcus’ arm. “What is it?”

Marcus raises his brows. “Do you need to ask?”

Esca holds his stare, and Marcus purses his lips unhappily and drops his voice to just above a whisper. “I am remembering, that’s all. Esca, two of those births ended with a dead infant, and one of the mothers did not survive either.”

Esca winces, and Marcus ducks his head. “I will do what I can, but do not judge me for my fears.”

“I don’t, you fool,” Esca tells him, and shoves his shoulder lightly. “Instruct me as you need to, and let us hope that we _all_ survive it.”

The room stays warm, with Esca delegated to keep the brazier fed; Marcus too has discarded his tunic, and Vatta’s is rucked up above her swollen belly. Modesty has no place in this space filled with tension and striving. Esca wishes desperately that they had at least one other woman to give Vatta comfort; he feels vastly out of place and suspects that Marcus feels the same, and he can’t even imagine how Vatta feels.

But this is what the gods have sent them, so he copes.

The storm is less intense when the edge of the window begins to lighten with morning, but the wind is still howling. Marcus is speaking soothingly to Vatta, a stream of Latin that Esca doubts either one is truly listening to; her contractions are nearly continuous, and she is soaked with sweat.

Marcus crouches next to the bed to examine her, as he has periodically all night, then stands quickly. “Esca,” he snaps. “Come here.”

Esca takes the few steps between the brazier and the bed, alarm chilling down his spine, but Marcus is still calm. “It’s time,” he says to Vatta. “Will you sit up?”

She nods, blinking through the strands of hair stuck to her face, and Marcus and Esca each take one of her arms and help her upright, then carefully off the bed. Marcus steadies her into a crouch, one of her arms wrapped around the bedpost, and directs Esca to kneel beside her and serve as a brace on the other.

Esca lets Vatta hook her hand over his shoulder and does not wince when her nails dig into his skin; his arm around her back can feel the iron hardness of her muscles as she strains. She is crying out, now, low sounds that are more than groans, and Marcus kneels before her, gaze lowered and intent. Esca is glad that he cannot see much of what is going on.

Vatta trembles and writhes, and Esca grips her harder as her cry rises towards a shout. “Yes, that’s it,” Marcus says. “Again!”

The coppery smell of blood cuts through the musk of sweat, and Vatta’s whole body heaves. She shouts again, a drawn-out sound, and then goes limp so suddenly that Esca nearly loses his hold.

 _“There,”_ Marcus says, and over Vatta’s hoarse breathing Esca hears a sound like a kitten sneezing. He looks past Vatta’s head to see something slimy and dripping and _moving_ in Marcus’ hands. Esca’s eyes finally see it as an actual infant when it opens its mouth and lets out a thin, piercing scream.

Vatta flinches. Marcus swears under his breath. “Esca, can you let her go? I need a cloth and the knife. And the string."

It takes a little doing, but Esca manages to get Vatta propped against the bed, then scrambles off his aching knees to fetch what Marcus asked for. The cord still ties mother and child together, but Marcus wraps the baby hastily in the cloth and puts the wriggling bundle into Esca’s hands.

He does something with the cord as Esca crouches beside him, but Esca doesn’t pay attention. He is riveted by the tiny squirming infant, who is still wailing, though not so loudly. It is a messy thing, bald and red and rather squashed-looking, but while on one level Esca is repulsed, on another he is fascinated. _Truly, the gods wrought a miracle when they made women. How do they do this, create a whole life from nothing?_

_And how do they bear the pain it requires?_

Vatta groans again, and Esca looks up to see her spasming through yet another contraction. For an instant he wonders if she is bearing _twins,_ but it is only the afterbirth. Marcus steadies her through it with bloody hands, then wraps her in a sheet. “There, it’s done,” he says, easing her up onto the bed despite the trembling of his bad leg. “It’s over.”

Only her panting tells Esca she is conscious. Marcus straightens wearily, wiping at his brow and leaving a streak of red behind, and then reaches to take the babe. He wraps the tiny form more securely, then holds it out to Vatta. “It’s a girl,” he says quietly.

Vatta’s eyes open, focusing slowly on the infant before flicking away. Her face creases in revulsion. “Put it out in the rain,” she says. “I do not want to look on it.”

Marcus falters, his face going blank with shock, but for the first time this night Esca knows what to do. He takes the babe back from Marcus, and jerks his chin at Vatta. “Do what you need to,” he says to Marcus. “I’ll see to this.”

Marcus blinks, and then nods.

Esca takes the babe out to the kitchen. She is not even crying any longer, merely staring vaguely up at him, one fist waving past the edge of the cloth. He finds a basket and empties out the apples it contains, then lays her in it to free both his hands.

“Goat’s milk,” he mutters as he washes his hands and face. “And honey.” _It’s hardly the first time I’ve fed an orphaned youngling. Though, to be fair…all the others bore fur._

A bit of soft rag dipped in the mixture serves well enough, and the babe’s a strong sucker, though she does not seem very hungry. When she falls asleep between one breath and the next, Esca sighs and pushes the bowl away, suddenly aware of how weary he is. _And if I am so, how much wearier is Marcus?_

To say nothing of Vatta…

 _I suppose we will have to find someone to take her--perhaps Sulgwenn can help us._ It is not beyond custom to expose an unwanted infant, but the babe is neither cursed nor obviously deformed. Nor is their community unable to feed another mouth. Esca is not about to leave her for the foxes without first trying to find other options.

A dragging step makes him look up. Marcus appears in the doorway, looking down at the bundle Esca is holding close. “How is she?”

“Well enough.” Esca hands her up when Marcus reaches out. “How is Vatta?”

Marcus bites his lip. “The bleeding has tapered off, which is a good sign, but she needs to clean up and she won’t let me help her.” He unwraps the cloth and runs a light finger over the baby’s sticky skin, peering close to examine her head and hands and feet.

At that moment, seeing the little body lying along Marcus’ arm, her head cradled in his wide hand, Esca feels something open within him, a gate he had not even known was there, and warmth floods out through it. His eyes prickle, and he pulls in a long breath.

“She’s perfect,” Marcus murmurs softly, and the awed look on his face doubles the sensation swamping Esca. He rises to put an arm around Marcus’ waist, ignoring the sweat and stink of the last hours, and slides his hand beneath Marcus’ to help support the babe.

Marcus leans into him, sighing quietly, and though no words are exchanged, Esca knows they are of one mind.

* * *

 

When Esca returns to the sleeping room it is still sweltering, though the fire in the brazier has died back a bit. Vatta is lying on the empty bed, lids closed, and she is clutching the stained sheet tight around her. Marcus is right, though; she needs to be clean and comfortable to recover properly.

Esca sets down the pot of water he’d heated. “How are you feeling?” he asks quietly.

For a moment, he thinks she will not answer, but then she stirs, opening reddened eyes. “I don’t think you truly want to know the answer to that question,” she says drily, and Esca chuckles.

“I suspect you’re right.” He waves at the bed. “I know you need to rest, but that cannot be comfortable. Will you, ah, let me help you?”

Vatta sighs, then sits up slowly, hissing as she moves. Esca hides a wince as she slides to the edge of the bed, and steps forward to help her to her feet.

She leans heavily on him, but they make it to the table, and Vatta braces both hands on it. Her breath is coming a bit hard, but she does not seem to be in distress, so Esca moves to gather cloths and soap.

He helps her wash and dress, and makes her sit on the room’s low bench as he heaves the straw-stuffed mattress back onto the frame and re-covers it. By the time she’s tucked back into the furs, Marcus has brought in bread and fish stew, and Vatta eats it without protest.

She is asleep before Esca has carried out the dishes.

He finds Marcus again in the kitchen, still without his tunic; he is eating stew himself, and staring into the apple basket bemusedly. Esca goes to look; the babe is swaddled and sleeping, but much cleaner than before.

Esca serves himself some stew and sits opposite Marcus at the table. “Vatta’s sleeping,” he says.

Marcus nods wearily. “We’ll need to watch her for bleeding, and for fever,” he says. “Not that I know what to do in either case.”

Esca tears off a piece of bread from the loaf in front of Marcus. He finds his eyes keep returning to the basket as well, though the babe has not moved. “As soon as the storm passes, I’ll go to find Sulgwenn again. She can help us.”

Marcus bites his lip and nods. Esca reaches across to pat his arm. “Finish eating, and then go and bathe,” he says. “I can watch over them both.”

Marcus gives him a wry look. “What do you know about infants?”

“More than you, only child,” Esca returns, smirking a little, and Marcus tilts his head, conceding with a grin of his own. The jest circles the sore place in Esca’s heart, but does not quite touch it, and it is well that they can be light about such things between themselves.

Marcus disappears into the balneum, and Esca finishes his own meal; he too needs to bathe, but it can wait. As he’s scraping the last mouthful from the bowl, the babe wakens, stirring with a tiny bubbling noise and frowning up at the edge of the basket.

Esca stares at her in renewed fascination. She has no hair on her head, but does possess impossibly delicate lashes and brows; her eyes are all pupil in the dim light, and he does not think she can see much yet.

Her brow wrinkles, and she blinks and sputters, then lets out a sound that is not quite a cry, but threatens to be one. Esca shoots a nervous glance in the direction of the sleeping room, and reaches in to lift her gingerly out.

She is surprisingly heavy, warm and moving in his hands. Esca is not quite sure how to hold her, but when he cradles her against his chest she quiets, snuffling a little.

He brushes a tentative fingertip across her nose, curious, and she turns towards it, lips moving eagerly. Esca laughs when she latches onto it, amazed at the strength of her pull.

“Well, you are not afraid to meet life, are you?” he murmurs, and when she starts to kick, frowning again, he hastens to warm more milk.

The rag is a messy solution, but it suffices for the moment. _Perhaps Sulgwenn can help us here too._ Though she is most likely to recommend a wet nurse, and Esca is surprised again at how much he dislikes the idea of giving the babe up.

When she is finished eating, hazy memory prompts Esca to prop her against his shoulder and rub her back. The resulting mess is disgusting, but he’s had worse spilled on him.

“One would think you an experienced mother.” Marcus’ voice is amused, and Esca turns to see him clean, if still weary.

“Father, surely,” Esca retorts, remembering only afterwards that Roman fathers scarcely know their children at all, but Marcus is unbothered, and merely holds out his hands.

“Your turn to bathe. I will give her another cleaning.”

“I foresee much more laundry in the coming days,” Esca says, and slides the babe carefully into Marcus’ grip. Their hands are nearly of a size, but the rest of Marcus is so much larger that she looks even tinier against him.

“We can take turns,” Marcus says equably, and Esca grins and leaves him to it.

* * *

 

The storm is past by mid-afternoon. Esca, yawning, lets the horses back out into the pasture, and saddles the bay mare to head to the village. Vatta has woken once, but not for long, and Esca and Marcus have taken turns with the most essential chores, one or the other of them always keeping the apple basket nearby. The babe, too, spends most of the time asleep.

Esca has to wait for Sulgwenn to return to her home, but as soon as she hears his story she agrees to come back with him. She is a tough, wiry Briton with piercing eyes and a crisp demeanour; Esca does not know her well, but everyone speaks of her with great respect.

They ride back through a wild landscape of broken branches, torn leaves, mud, and beaten grass, but the late-afternoon sun strikes brilliance from every raindrop and the remaining breeze is chasing the last clouds over the horizon. Sulgwenn rides a pony as tough as herself, and peppers Esca with questions regarding the birth. He answers those he can, and refers her to Marcus for the ones he cannot.

When they reach the farm, Marcus is waiting outside with the basket, and Sulgwenn’s face softens for the first time when she sees the contents.

Both Marcus and Esca hover as she unwraps the babe and examines her. It is a breathless few minutes, but finally Sulgwenn smiles and takes a vial from her pack, uncapping it to smear the contents--some herb-infused oil--over the babe’s skin. “She’s well,” Sulgwenn says. “Strong, and of a good weight. Newborns are chancy things, but she has a fine start.”

Marcus lets out a long breath, and Esca feels his own heart ease. It is _astonishing_ , how quickly he’s become attached to this small being.

“Now let me see the mother,” Sulgwenn says, swaddling the babe again and handing her to Marcus. “You said she does not want her child?”

Esca nods. He has not told her Vatta’s story, only that they had a guest who had given birth the night before; he knows that Sulgwenn can hold her tongue, but it is not his tale to tell.

Sulgwenn looks them both over, lingering on the careful way Marcus holds the babe, and nods back. “Where is she?”

Esca shows the midwife to the sleeping room, and is promptly barred from it. He makes no protest, retreating to the kitchen to start supper since Marcus is drowsing on the bench outside, the basket snug beside him. He can hear the rise and fall of voices, but not the words, and he does not try to listen.

Sulgwenn emerges nearly an hour later, and accepts Esca’s invitation to stay for the meal. She looks as weary as he feels. _And so she should, after a birth and then this; she probably hasn’t slept in over a day._

“Your guest is resting,” she tells Esca and Marcus as she joins them in the kitchen. “You’ve done well for her--particularly you, Aquila.”

Marcus blushes, and Sulgwenn smiles, accepting the plate that Esca passes her. “She’s had as easy a labor as can be expected. She’ll need watching for the next few days--fever or haemorrhaging is always a possibility--but I don’t think you need worry much.”

Marcus lets out a breath, his shoulders relaxing. “I don’t mind admitting that I was terrified.”

Sulgwenn chuckles and raises her cup to him. “I’ve heard much of the bravery of Legionaries, and it seems you’ve proven it. Now, as for the babe--“

Esca and Marcus both tense. Sulgwenn shakes her head, still smiling. “My advice to you is to continue on as you have, unless the babe does ill. It would be better for your guest for you to practice discretion until she is gone.”

Marcus nods. “And if she does not do well?”

Sulgwenn shrugs. “Then we will see if there is a woman willing to nurse her, though there are only two or three in the village with unweaned children right now.”

She pauses for a bite of food. “I’ve given your guest herbs to your to stop her milk, since she has refused the babe. If she changes her mind, let me know, but I don’t think she will.”

Esca, remembering the look of revulsion on Vatta’s face, does not think she will either.

Sulgwenn refuses their offer to spend the night despite her weariness, so Esca escorts her back through an evening that deepens to a chilly, moon-silvered night. He finds that Marcus has dealt with the horses, so there is little to do once Esca has settled his mare, and when he goes inside the house is quiet. The pallet in the main room is occupied, and Esca can just make out Vatta beneath the heap of furs.

It goes against the grain to leave her there, but knowing Marcus as he does, Esca is certain that it was Vatta’s choice to move back to the main room--and that it had taken some doing to make Marcus acquiesce. So he slips past her silently and into the brazier-lit dimness of the sleeping chamber--and smiles broadly.

Marcus is sound asleep, sitting up in the bed with his back against the wall and the apple basket in his lap. Even now, one strong hand is braced against the wicker lest the basket somehow tumble free, and Esca feels a sudden lump rise in his throat. The sight pierces him through the heart, as sharp as a well-shot arrow, and for a breath of time he feels small, and humble, and at the same time a part of something vast and eternal.

The lump eases, replaced by a rising swell of love for the sleeping man before him. He had hated Marcus at first, loathed him for his past and allegiances and resented him for taking Esca’s chosen death from him. Gradually, hate had given way to respect, and then--when Marcus had grown enough to be worthy of it--a love Esca hadn’t expected.

And now, another layer of that love is unfolding, equally unanticipated. Esca shakes his head, and pulls off his boots, and slides smoothly onto the bed next to Marcus.

The basket’s inhabitant is also sleeping, lashes flickering slightly, and Esca wonders what a new babe dreams of. He lifts the basket carefully away, putting it next to him on the mattress, then coaxes Marcus down until his dark head is resting in Esca’s lap. _He needs more rest than he’ll get sitting up._

Marcus snuffles, but does not truly wake, hooking one hand over Esca’s knee and subsiding into stillness. Esca rests a hand on his shoulder and cups the other around the basket, though its chances of moving are even less than on Marcus’ lap, and closes his eyes.

Still smiling.

* * *

 

The next few days are an education to them both. Esca has faint memories of the noise infants are capable of producing, but it is shocking--and painful--to be reminded, and he had never realised the _mess_ something so small and helpless is capable of creating, either.

They quickly find that the babe is quietest not in the basket but when she is being held, so Marcus devises a sling so that they can take turns wearing her. Vatta avoids whoever is caring for the infant as much as possible, and in turn they do their best to keep the babe out of her sight and hearing. Esca is relieved that she does not renew her demand for exposure, but there is no point in pushing their luck, either.

Vatta recovers fast, particularly for one so ill-fed, Esca thinks; he is glad to see her colour return and her steps strengthen, though she grows no more cheerful than before she gave birth. She resumes working about the house as before, and at her request Marcus carves her a spindle and finds her some fleece. Her fingers are swift and skilled, and Esca suspects that they will have more than one skein finished by the time Vatta leaves.

He is in the stable with the babe when Marcus finds him one afternoon, raising a brow at the process Esca is perfecting. “Is that safe?”

Esca grins up at him from the milking stool, where he is holding the infant beneath their oldest nanny. The babe is nursing while the goat chews her cud placidly, both apparently pleased with the arrangement. “She’s not inclined to move. And this saves time.”

Marcus laughs, and goes to lean against the nearest wall. “Very true.” He watches for a while.

When the babe is finished and Esca is rubbing her back--he has learned by now to put a rag over his shoulder first--Marcus speaks again, keeping his voice low. “When I went to the market this morning I heard that slave-catchers came through yesterday, looking for a pregnant woman.”

Esca frowns, jouncing the babe gently as she gurgles in his ear. “So they’re NOT looking for one who’s not.”

“For now.” Marcus looks grave. “But that will soon change.”

Esca shakes his head. “It is time Vatta left, then. Before they start looking more closely.”

“We can’t just tell her to go,” Marcus protests. “She is not fully healed, Esca.”

“But she’s doing well. And winter is coming soon,” Esca counters. “If she’s to reach Deva before the first snow falls…”

Marcus grimaces, but he does not argue further. “Then how can she travel? We can’t afford to give her a horse.”

Esca snorts. “I doubt she’d accept one. But Prasto and his family usually make a last trade run in late autumn; they can get her at least partway there if she’s willing to go with them.”

“That would work.” Marcus brightens.

The babe makes a now-familiar noise, and Esca sighs as the warm damp soaks through the rag. “Here, take her, will you?”

Marcus laughs and obeys.

* * *

 

Vatta leaves them two days later. Prasto and his wife are quite willing to give space to a traveler in their cart, particularly one who can pay her way with some work, and Esca knows that while Prasto might be curious about Vatta, his wife knows the value of discretion. And neither have any great love for Rome or its laws.

It is Esca she bids farewell to; Marcus is indoors with the babe as they stand at the gate. Vatta is wearing her own clothes again, shabby as they are, but Esca has at least convinced her to take an old cloak of Marcus’. She’ll swim in it, but it will keep her warm on her journey.

He hands her a small bundle of food, dried meat and the like, suitable for traveling. “You’ll part from Prasto before you reach Deva,” he tells her. “This will get you further.”

Esca does not mention the handful of coin hidden at the centre of the pack. They can’t spare much, but it will help.

Vatta shakes her head, smiling reluctantly. “You are too generous. You have already saved my life.”

“And we don’t want to see that wasted, eh?” Esca grins at her.

She looks away. “I still cannot repay you.”

Esca gentles his voice. “Do you not see that you already have?”

Vatta’s face closes as it does each time the babe comes to her notice, but after a moment she gives a short nod.

The rattle of Prasto’s cart coming down the lane cuts short any further words they might have spoken, and within minutes Vatta is settled in the back amongst the crates. She returns Esca’s wave as Prasto urges his team forward, and then she is gone.

The next month is interesting, in ways that Esca did not know were possible. There are days when the babe goes through swaddling so fast that they run out of cloths before the clean ones are dry enough to use. There are nights when she refuses to stop crying, let alone sleep, unless one of them holds her and paces, back and forth, always moving. There are times when they snap at each other from sheer exhaustion, while the babe gurgles placidly and kicks her feet.

Esca catches his annual cold before the month is out, and Marcus moves into the stable with the infant, both to keep her from getting sick and to save Esca from her wails. By the time Esca is well enough, Marcus is worn grey, but reports with weary humour that one of the stable cats has adopted the babe and insists on curling up with her, which seems to help her sleep.

“He keeps bringing her mice,” Marcus adds with a chuckle. “Fortunately dead.”

“He should bring them to you instead,” Esca says, making a face; he has never understood the Roman liking for mice as food.

“One’s not enough to bother with,” Marcus replies. “Esca…it’s past time she had a name.”

* * *

 

_Five years later_

“Is he coming yet?”

Marcus laughs as pulls the bridle from the horse he’s tending. “Ask Master Sharp-Ears over there.”

Esca rolls his eyes good-naturedly and stands firm against the friendly shove from his own mare. “Why don’t you climb to your aerie, little eagle, and watch for him?”

“ALL right!” Asgaidh runs off in a flurry of wild amber curls and sturdy legs, to scramble up into the nest Marcus has built her in a gnarled old apple tree.

“How long do you think she’ll stay there?” Marcus asks, giving his horse a gentle slap to move her into the pasture.

“About five minutes. But it’ll be a QUIET five minutes.” Esca grins and gathers up their gear. “Is your uncle late, do you think?”

Marcus glances at the sky and shakes his head. “You know he always arrives on time these days.”

It was true; Uncle Aquila had been as bemused by their sudden babe as everyone else, but has taken to his new grandchild like a cat to mint. His visits are regular as well as prompt, and Asgaidh is always eager to return them as well, though Marcus and Esca have less free time to travel into Calleva.

They part, Marcus to return to the house and Esca to put away the tack, and when Esca emerges from the stable he can just hear a horse in the distance. He waves to Asgaidh in her nest, and she immediately climbs down to run to him, and they go to the gate to wait.

Esca keeps one hand on her head; she knows she’s not to leave the farm without permission, but she is still prone to forget in her excitement. He smiles as she prances in place, her fingers winding into the fabric of his leggings as the rider comes into view.

Uncle Aquila does not wave when he sees them, but he does nudge his mount, which pricks its ears and picks up its feet. Esca holds wide the gate for him to enter, and then takes the bridle as the old man dismounts, a courtesy rather than a necessity.

Asgaidh, daughter of two horsemen, waits to swarm Uncle Aquila until he is safely away from the gelding, but then she climbs him like her apple tree while he hugs her and exclaims over how she’s grown in just the month since he saw her last. Esca grins again, and leads the horse to the pasture to join the others.

They spend a jolly afternoon, the old man and the little girl; Esca is warmed by the sight of them, and so is Marcus, who stands in the doorway to watch as Uncle Aquila settles Asgiadh on the bench outside and tells her stories.

They’ve told him the same explanation they’ve given everyone else: that they woke the day after the autumn storm to find a newborn left on their doorstep, with no sign of the mother. Only Sulgwenn and Vatta know the truth of it, and Esca doubts they’ll ever see the latter again; Gaisio may have guessed, but he’s not a gossip. As far as the neighbours are concerned, little Doireann Asgaidh is an Aquila.

Esca leans against Marcus, just a little, and feels Marcus’ arm slip around his waist as they listen to the story.

It’s not the life he ever expected to have, for how could he have foreseen the gods giving him a Roman for a beloved, and the two of them a child? The idea is downright mad.

Esca laughs to himself, and lets his head rest against Marcus’ shoulder. Mad, perhaps, but--

It is perfect.

~End~

**Author's Note:**

> If I have my translations correct, "Asgaidh" means "gift" while "Doireann" means "storm".


End file.
